


lost souls in revelry

by finalizer



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M, New Years, THE ULTIMATE HOLIDAY EXTRAVAGANZA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:51:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5419457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry never failed to make a grandiose display of his abundant wealth. Not that he made an effort, it just happened. He <i>just happened</i> to book two weeks at the single most luxurious resort in the goddamn Swiss Alps, whatever, happens to everyone at some point, right?</p><p>In which everything is just a tiny bit festive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost souls in revelry

**Author's Note:**

> 'm making a comeback to this fandom to present y'all with a gross, fluffy holiday themed piece, so go forth and enjoy, or don't, but you totally should
> 
> title from _renegades_ by x ambassadors, which i've had on repeat since july (oops)

i.

“Yeah, I heard of ‘em.”

Peter gaped. “You heard of them?” he asked dubiously. “You _heard_ of finals?”

“Sure I have.”

“I physically cannot wrap my mind around the concept of you having merely _heard_ of the existence of finals while the rest of us here suffer through months of agony to pass by the skin of our teeth.”

There was a careless shrug from Harry. “ _Now_ , just how hard can it be, Parker?”

“You sound like you _want_ to get dangled off the roof.”

And that’s how it began.

 

/

 

Peter crammed for a few hours, or at least pretended to, then dropped his textbooks and leapt out the window to save the world. Worst part of it all, he couldn’t even use _I stopped that mutant wolf man from destroying Harlem_ as an excuse to get out of the next day’s test. And despite Harry’s insistence to lend his money for nefarious purposes, Peter didn’t exactly feel like buying himself out of an exam would be fair to anyone either. Or legal, but who was Harry to give a fuck about technicalities when he practically used hundred dollar bills to blow his nose.

 

/

 

Finals week rolled around and Spider-Man was miraculously off duty for the entire duration. It almost seemed as though the local supervillains managed to figure out his secret identity to cut him some slack for the sake of a quality education. Always nice to finally be appreciated by those who pummel your face into the concrete on a weekly basis, and all that.

Peter didn’t know what the hell he wrote on those tests, going on three hours of sleep a night and drinking a tad bit more coffee than usual _—_  in comparison, at this rate, if he got a dollar for every cup he had during finals season, he’d be richer than Harry goddamn Osborn himself. At some point his hands started jittering and he was pretty sure his powers shouldn’t have allowed that to happen. Ah, the good ‘ol college educational system, what a wonder.

 

/

 

Peter was making himself a cup of _—_   _you guessed it_   _—_ coffee when Harry handed him a pamphlet and two airplane tickets.

“What’s this?” Peter asked, and got a pitying smile in return.

“Two weeks at a ski resort in the Alps,” came the reply. “All inclusive. You need to unwind.”

“I am perfectly _—_  ”

“There’s nothing in your mug but creamer. You forgot the coffee. Now put it down and go pack your big poofy coat. Flight leaves at ten tomorrow, buddy.”

 

 

ii.

Peter rolled with the punches. He didn’t ask how much the first class flight was worth because he was fairly certain the personal valet to the airport already cost more than a years’ worth of his college tuition.

Then came the storybook hotel, looking like a mansion straight out of a fairytale, illuminated in iridescent colors, the towering mountains looming out from behind as a backdrop.

Harry never failed to make a grandiose display of his abundant wealth. Not that he made an effort, it just happened. He _just_ _happened_ to book two weeks at the single most luxurious resort in the goddamn Swiss Alps, whatever, happens to everyone at some point, right?

“To think I got you a mug from your birthday,” Peter muttered, as their bags were intercepted by an immaculately dressed bellhop dashing across the lobby in an impressive feat of professionalism.

Harry handed the guy a truly impressive tip (he would have gotten punched if he hadn’t, probably _—_  Peter didn’t tolerate uppity shit like that) before squaring Peter with a sincere, vaguely placating smile. “It’s my favorite mug.”

 

/

 

“What’s a mug to the size of that bathtub?” Peter countered later, when they were let into their suite, and it physically hurt to look at the undoubtedly priceless vintage furniture.

“That’s a Jacuzzi.”

“Oh, _pardon me_ , I didn’t realize I’m now required to possess expert knowledge of the proper household appliance terminology.”

 

_/_

 

“Wait, does that mean there’s a Jacuzzi _and_ a bathtub?”

 

 

iii.

Rich, snobby folk had their faults, sure, but they knew how to make a goddamn luxury getaway. Peter was fairly certain he was ready to quit school for good and move to Switzerland full time just to have permanent access to the ski slopes. He blamed his superhuman agility for how quickly he took to a sport he’d never even dreamed of trying before. The instructor, for one, was definitely taken aback by his skill, most likely due to Peter having signed up for a beginners class. He wondered if his excuse of beginner’s luck was plausible _—_  it wasn’t as if he could just tell the guy he was part spider.

Harry just stood at the top of the slope, pointedly not skiing. Also, wearing some designer coat that was surely not the correct attire for the harsh temperatures. _Life isn’t a photoshoot, Harry,_ Peter would say. Harry would dare to disagree on account of paparazzi lurking literally everywhere, just waiting to snap a shot of some high up socialite face planting in the snow. Life was tough when one’s name ended up splashed on tabloid headlines every other week. Peter still reminisced about that one time _Harry Osborn Spills Coffee In Central Park_ made the news. He’d gotten it framed and hung it in Harry’s office _—_  it had yet to be taken down. Maybe Harry liked his outfit in the photo, kept it as a souvenir.

 

/

 

“Do you even know how to ski?”

Harry leveled Peter with a _look_ that was barely discernible through Peter’s thick goggles (and the Prada shades Harry was sporting, what the fuck, Harry). “I’m the epitome of spoiled trust fund brat. You think I’ve never been to a resort before?”

“Yeah, but did you ski?”

Harry didn’t grace him with a reply.

Peter steamrolled on. “Did you even leave the spa?”

“That is beside the point.”

Then again, Peter didn’t really blame Harry for steering clear of the slopes. Harry’s only real talent was spending his heaps of money; aside from that, he was hopelessly unskilled in every variation of physical activities, save for those taking place in the bedroom, thank you very much.

 

/

 

“Look, Parker, if you’d been to the spa, you wouldn’t be poking fun at me.”

“Nah, I’d rather poke fun at you.”

 

/

 

At some point, Peter noticed that Harry had vanished from his vantage point atop the hill and came to the unanimous conclusion that he’d probably ducked inside the lounge for a drink. One, because Harry couldn’t go two hours without a drink, and two, because the temperature was below freezing and Harry had refused to put on a fucking hat in fear of ruining his hair.

Peter made a beeline to the lift, hoping that Harry could entertain himself for a moment while he enjoyed one last go on the slope. Then again, scotch was Harry’s favorite form of entertainment, so all worrying was futile.   

Begrudgingly, he decided he’d make up for lost time with Harry by agreeing to go to the damn spa with him the next day. It certainly wasn’t too high up on Peter’s list of desirable daytime activities, but sacrifices had to be made for the greater good _—_  here meaning: trying to prevent a Harry Osborn Hissy Fit™.

 

 

iv.

“I’m not getting a manicure, Harry.”

“It’s not a solely feminine _—_  ”

“I am _not_ getting a manicure.”

 

/

 

“What’s the point of a sauna? I get the same amount of steam in the shower.”

Harry pointedly said nothing, his unimpressed bearing alone letting Peter know he was getting somewhat tired of all the complaining.

“I am an average middle class New Yorker, Harry, I don’t see the purpose of sitting in this opulent steam filled cabin, sue me.”

 

/

 

“ _This_ I can get with.”

Closing his eyes, Peter dipped his head back and rested it on the cool tile at the side of the pool. It was infinitely more relaxing than having a masseuse dig their exceptionally bony elbows into his lower back just hours prior. Something he’d learned about himself that day _—_  massages were a definite no go.

“Aw, is the meager Jacuzzi living up to your suburban middle class standards?”

Peter kicked Harry in the shin from across the pool. “I’d splash you but I’m worried I’d _—_  ”

“ _—_  ruin my hair?”

“I was gonna say _burn your face off_ ,” Peter interjected, “but, sure, your hair’s top priority.”

 

 

v.

“You don’t need perfect coordination for this,” Peter argued.

“Says the freaky spider dude.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

 

/

 

Half an hour later, at the ice rink, Harry came to the unanimous conclusion that it most certainly was not fun. He also realized that it was a moment in life that Peter would never let him live down.

Then, so caught up in his deliberations that he missed a turn, he slipped on the ice and toppled face down at Peter’s feet.

The embarrassment would never die.

 

/

 

“ _Come on_ , Harry,” Peter teased. “See that kid over there? She’s like three years old and she’s doing better than you.”

Harry stumbled and fell forward for the umpteenth time, Peter graciously catching him in his arms this time around (unlike the previous three hundred incidents where he’d let him belly flop to the ground).

“Did I or did I not say I couldn’t skate to save my life? It’s hopeless, Pete.”

Peter pouted. Like, actual, literal, big brown doe eyes. The saddest of the sad. It was the most pitiful pout Harry had ever laid eyes upon and he _lived_ with Peter.

“What?” he demanded. He tried not to smile, and failed, mostly.

Peter ducked his head in a theatrical display of sorrow, staring at the ice at his feet. First the puppy eyes, then the guilt tripping, and Harry was on the right track to becoming putty in Peter’s hands.

Harry sighed. “Fine. I’ll stay. But if I go down, I’m taking you down with me.”

It was a good enough answer for Peter to lift his head up, revealing a wide, toothy grin, and grab Harry’s arm, pulling him to his side. Keeping the guy steady was nothing if not challenging, but Peter prided himself on being inhumanly strong. Because he literally wasn’t human, and stuff, but it was the thought that counted.

“We gonna skate arm in arm?”

Peter managed a one shouldered shrug.

“’Cause,” Harry continued, “I don’t think we’ll get too far, pal.”

 

/

 

There was something so unfair about Peter’s goddamn magical immune system _—_  they’d just skidded flat onto the ice for the thousandth time since Harry had latched on to Peter for dear life, and Harry, for one, was red nosed and utterly frozen. Peter, on the other hand, was laughing and already pushing himself upright as if the cold had next to no effect on him.

Harry resolved to keep his complaints to himself. If he voiced them, he’d never hear the end of Peter’s chidings, of the _you should have worn a damn hat_ variety.  

 

/

 

“You’re a trooper,” Peter told Harry, as they were in the process of changing shoes on their way out of the rink.

“I’m frozen solid.”

“You fell a million and one times but you got up every time.”

“I can’t tell if that was meant to be an insult.”

Peter shrugged in mock clandestineness.

 

/

 

“How about a hot chocolate reward?” Peter offered later, on the way to their suite. “My treat.”

“You have got to be joking.”

Because Peter practically lived off cheap instant ramen, and here he was offering to buy beverages in the single most expensive getaway in all of Europe.

 

 

vi.

It was around the time that Peter had first refused Harry’s offer to pay his college tuition on the grounds that he wasn’t Harry’s, quote _, goddamn charity case_ , unquote, that Harry had decided their relationship was going to be an entirely gift free one. Because if Peter was going to be stubborn about it and play the martyr, with his bank account balance usually ranging between two and four dollars, then Harry did not need him to unnecessarily spend extra money on presents for the sake of tradition. _Screw sentimentality_ , he would say, when Peter dared to protest, _you’re broke_.

In turn, Peter had demanded that Harry promise not to whip out his fancy credit cards for equally unnecessary luxury items to make up for the metaphorical gaping hole in Peter’s wallet. As far as Peter was concerned, Harry kept his word.

Except Harry, aside from being stupid, filthy rich, was also not one for following direct orders, and had ways of smuggling in his money and assistance without being caught _—_  he had people, his people had people _—_  he had his fingers in a lot of pies, so to say.

Aunt May’s car broke down _—_  mechanic told her it was a freebie. Peter was a few hundred bucks short with his tuition debt _—_  he got a call letting him know there’d been an error in the system and that he’s all good. One time Harry had even managed to pay off the campus café Peter frequented into telling him he’d won a free lifetime supply card (which didn’t even exist, but, oh, the things money could buy). Other than his dashing good looks (obviously), Harry deemed he had little to offer aside from his money, so he felt compelled to at least put it to good use.

If Peter suspected, he didn’t say.

 

/

 

Hence, it threw Harry off guard, when he was casually lounging around, watching some pointless reality TV, that Peter gently deposited a small, wrapped box on the bedside table at Harry’s end of the king size.

Peter took a long stride backwards, perhaps to be out of blast radius when Harry blew up in his face.

In turn, Harry was looking at the box like it actually contained a bomb.

Then, “We decided _no gifts_.”

Peter rocked back on the balls of his feet _—_  nervous, anticipatory, with a hint of poorly suppressed glee. Harry was vaguely alarmed.

“I wasn’t gonna get nothin’,” Peter started, “but then you went all out with the trip, and the ski lessons and everything _—_  so, I went down to the gift shop _—_  ”

Harry couldn’t help but interrupt. “ _—_  the gift shop _here_? Christ, Pete, they sell fucking candy bars for six to eight dollars.”

Taking a quick moment to get over his initial shock that Harry was actually aware of bills smaller than a hundred dollars, Peter waved a hand in dismissal, eager to get to the point.

“Leave it alone, Harry,” he said, “it’s Christmas Day, stop whining, let a man live.”

Harry promptly shut up.

“Now,” Peter announced, with all the grandiose he could muster, “the grand reveal.”

He dramatically motioned at the box with a flurry of jazz hands, and Harry had no choice but to comply, powerless against Peter’s painfully adorable excitement. He reached for the box and untangled the sloppy bow with all the flair the situation required. And then  _—_

“Pete,” Harry said very seriously, holding up the _goddamn hat_ (it had a pom pom) with both hands, “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

Peter grinned. “It has the resort logo and all.”

 

/

 

Obviously, Peter couldn’t care less if Harry wore a hat or not; it was the man’s own business if he wanted to catch pneumonia via prancing around underdressed in the Swiss Alps. In the end, it all came down to the few seconds of pure, unadulterated joy of watching Harry’s mental face palm as he unboxed the gift. Peter later cursed himself for not having taken an actual picture _—_  and he called himself a photographer, what the fuck.

 

 

vii.

The resort was hosting its annual New Year’s ball, a gross and lavish display of opulence _—_  so, naturally, Peter pointedly refused to attend. Harry had tried to argue that it was simply bad publicity for him not to show up, so Peter had shoved him up against the nearest wall and effectively cut off whatever rant was due to follow _—_ with his mouth, et cetera, you get the picture.

Yes, Peter Parker was great at haphazardly leaping off tall buildings, but his true talent lay in getting what he wanted. Harry very often learned that the hard way.

 

/

 

Harry wistfully stared at his suit, hand tailored and recently delivered, laid out ever so carefully on the master bed. It looked so sad, he thought, so beautiful and never to be worn (because Harry was a diva and every big occasion warranted a special, custom made getup).

“Are you sure we can’t drop by for a few minutes? Smile for the pretty cameras and _—_  ”

Peter interrupted. “You and I both know you just wanna go downstairs for the booze. So,” he paused and pulled open the mini fridge door with dramatic flair, “I brought the party to you.”

It was filled to the brim with various cans and bottles and Harry had to admit he was rather impressed with the turn of events. Then, “How’d you pull that off? You’re underage.”

The refrigerator door slammed shut and then Peter was looking at Harry like he’d grown an extra head or two. “I’m genuinely shocked that you of all people did not Google the drinking age before making plans to visit this country.”

“Have you known me to ever follow age restrictions, Pete? Has anything ever stopped me from getting my scotch?”

For the record, nothing had. A few months prior, during a particularly vicious attack on New York (flesh eating something or another, crawled its way up the sewers), Harry had not hesitated to send his secretary out to fetch him a bottle of his favorite Macallan when his previous had run dry. Point taken, it wasn’t Harry himself putting his life out on the line back there, but the gist of it all was the same, really. The guy just really needed the damn scotch.

 

/

 

“So, we watch fireworks on the balcony, drinking champagne straight from the bottle, it all seems very romantic in our drunken haze, and then we pass out on the floor beside the bed with the French doors open, then wake up frozen half to death with some really impressive hangovers.”

Peter mulled it over in his mind. “Sounds about right. I call dibs on the toilet, though.”

 

/

 

“You have some ace qualities, Spider-Man,” Harry muttered, halfway through his second glass, “but good taste in spirits is not among them.”

Peter, far less experienced in holding his liquor, stumbled toward Harry and clapped his hand over Harry’s shoulder (because he was a handsy drunk, and it was usually funny, also hot, sometimes, yeah). “Just got whatever was worth the most.”

“Price is no guarantee of quality.”

“You’re absolutely right. Your hairdresser is a prime example.”

Harry did a cliché double take and barely suppressed his urge to spit his champagne over the railing of the balcony, because Peter had just insulted his prize possession atop his head and that called for drastic measures, like arm flailing and crying.

 

/

 

There was some bad pop music (Peter’s idea), a loud and entirely unnecessary countdown before the clock struck twelve (Harry’s idea), followed by an exceptionally enthusiastic mandatory midnight kiss (a mutual decision).

 

/

 

“Those were the lamest fireworks I’ve ever heard,” Peter concluded.

And yeah, _heard_ , because he was way past the point of standing upright and had abandoned Harry on the balcony in favor of lying flat on his back in the very center of the bed.

“There was one shaped like Spider-Man,” Harry called over his shoulder.

Peter weakly lifted his head off the bed and blinked as the room spun. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m really not,” Harry lied.

Peter’s expression turned smug. “Cool,” he huffed, then promptly passed out.

 

 

viii.

“Let me know next time you need to get away for a week or two, will you?”

Peter pulled his suitcase out of the back of the car (because having the chauffeur do it was weird) and looked up at Harry in confusion. “Meaning?”

“When school gets to your head again,” Harry elaborated, “or something. When you start eating soup with a fork and forget to shave for six days straight, that sort of thing. I’ll throw together another trip to sort you out.”

Peter cracked a smile. It was endearing but oh, so pretentious, so naïve. “You have no idea how the real world works, do you, pal?”

There was no doubt Harry was rolling his eyes behind his designer shades.

“Props to you for trying,” Peter added, “but like, get a life, Osborn.”

**Author's Note:**

> completely inspired by [this commercial](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdfIoyhCP40) because it made me think of harry and how he would totally wear prada to a ski slope


End file.
